


Pressure

by HAL_berd



Category: Dragon Nest (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, shots shots shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-05 10:00:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HAL_berd/pseuds/HAL_berd
Summary: A collection of shots that center around my favorite gold dragon who's too dumb to live.1) Roses: Geraint is acquainted with the custom of flower-giving.2) Kin: Geraint, Argenta, Daisy, and the fall of the Tempest Dragon.3) A Toast: The army drinks to a narrow victory.4) Adaptation: This body is too small for a dragon.





	1. Roses

"So, after excessive frustration, I finally decided that instead of waiting for him to court me as a woman would wait for a man, I would court him as a man would court a woman," Karacule mutters.

Argenta raises an eyebrow. The entire debacle with this human sorceress' obsession with her very much inhuman younger brother has been the only amusing part of this whirling shitstorm of a campaign, but she never suspected the woman would confide in her.

"You inform me of this why?" Argenta asks.

Karacule seethes. "I gave him roses, _red_ roses, and told him they were a token of my affections," she explains. "He said, 'Huh. I should pick a few for Velskud,' and then  _immediately_ stalked off."

This event has suddenly lost all comedic value.

"So I'm here to tell you your brother's a damn fairy," Karacule continues. "He's a twinkling bastard fae who leads innocent women on, and you need to go  _fix him_."

Argenta is already out the door.

* * *

She corners Geraint just outside of Velskud's tent.

"Argenta!" he greets brightly, clutching a bundle of fresh red roses.

Argenta absorbs the wideness of his smile, the way his eyes seem to sparkle. And, in an effort to both preserve her brother's good mood and to make more ambiguous the state of affairs between the dragon and Velskud (even she could not exactly determine if Geraint had romantic feelings or not), she turns the roses yellow with the flick of a finger.

Then, she leaves him to dig his own grave.

 


	2. Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fragments of Sentinel and the fall of Tempest. Argenta, Geraint, Daisy.

Geraint's hand trembles on his sword, and it's frightening.

"Why...?" he questions. "What is... What is this?"

Argenta rolls her eyes. "It's the manifestation of your 'duty,'" she explains. "You are, after all, the dragon born to destroy all who would conspire against the Goddess, and I have told you there is  _Tempest_ around."

"Tempest...?" he asks weakly. "Our..."

There is something tangled and conflicted in the young dragon's eyes. Argenta has long grown weary of her recently-awoken twin and his...uncharacteristic naivete. Perhaps she had expected the other half of her lustre to be exactly as she was, perhaps more, perhaps much more. 

Perhaps she had wanted to feel less alone.

(But no.

She had found him escaping from a village, having been chased out by impudent _humans_ when he could have melted the sinew off their bones.

She had found him sullied with the name of a  _dog_ given by a  _human girl_.)

"Our...brother?"

Argenta hisses. 

" _Do not call him that_ ," she snarls. "He threw away his right to  **our** kinship when he gave in to the void."

"He had no choice," Geraint bites back, trying desperately to stay his hand. "He was _sick."_

"He was  _weak_."

 _He was a traitor_.

"Excuse me...?" a small voice calls from behind them.

The swirl of  _Tempest_ gets thicker, and Argenta sees Geraint's wings explode outwards in plumes of golden feathers.

The voice gasps, and Argenta wishes desperately that she could still manifest her wings and destroy this fragment of  _Tempest_ herself. The damn thing is trying to come off as a small boy, prey off her brother's errant sentimentality, and inside she feels the hatred she has kindled since her awakening flare ever higher.

" _Tempest_ ," she growls.

The thing backs up, pathetic little white wings fluttering behind it like so many tattered rags, and Argenta can see Geraint struggling.

"So you two are the energy I could feel from so far away," the fragment of  _Tempest_ has the  _audacity_ to whisper. "...Pieces of...Sentinel."

" _Yes,_ " Argenta responds through gritted teeth. "And if you could feel us, then you know that your game ends  _today_ , Tempest."

"Game?" the thing asks nervously. "What do you mean?"

"You don't have me fooled with your weak appearance, White Dragon. You  _reek_ of him, and any descendant of Tempest is another threat to be eliminated in the name of  **mother**."

The thing's eyes narrow.

"Speak for yourself, Sentinel," it rumbles, dropping its boyish facade for the shortest of moments. "Don't think I can't smell the stench of  _Ancient blood_ on you. Was that you that day when the Ancients went extinct, Silver Dragon?"

She growls.

"I had  _nothing_ to do with that."

It stares steadily back, and then it looks at Geraint.

"I am the White Dragon," it states simply. "I am Tempest. I am an uncorrupted fragment of the Tempest lustre; the  _only_ uncorrupted fragment of Tempest. My name is Iona."

" _Don't dismiss me, you-_ "

"Who gave you your name?"

Argenta turns towards her brother's soft questioning. The quaver in his voice is tangible.

Iona smiles. "My friend Rubinart."

Geraint smiles weakly back. "And your clothes?"

"The humans. They were kind to me, so I took on their appearance."

Geraint laughs, and with great effort, sheathes his sword. That is how Argenta knows she has lost.

* * *

_Her scales began to crumble away the moment she escaped from Arno's stunt. A hundred nerves erupted as her wings, her beautiful wings, were stolen from her flake by pitiful flake, leaving only this dirty human form, all because of their damn hubris, and the pain brought her back to nightmares of claws digging into **their** chest as  **their** brother- no, no, no, that  **damn traitor** rended flesh and blood and split **them** into her and him and small incomplete pieces-_

Traitors _, she thought._ Damn traitors, the lot of them.

_Tempest ripping Sentinel's lustre out in his last desperate act of villainy. The Ancients opening the monolith and having the gall to try sacrificing her to close it._

_It was all the same._

* * *

The little girl named Lisa does not run from him screaming like the beasts of the forest do. She does not feel the pulsing of his lustre pounding like the  _tympana_ on the fields of battle, nor is she observant enough to see through his glamour and catch the blood-red of his irises and the adder-like slit of his glare.

She does not know he is a dragon.

She just sees his golden wings and whispers, "Angel."

And he feels something bubbling in his chest that is not loneliness.

She comes the next day with food and coerces him into eating. This experience is new to him, having just been given physical form. He learns that he must eat to maintain his energy and stay alive.

(No wonder he had been growing gradually weaker and weaker in his aimless wandering.)

"Feels...weird..." he admits, tracing the sensation of something physically moving through the soft organs  _inside his body_.

"Tough," the little girl named Lisa says. "You need to eat. You're welcome."

Sheepishly, he amends, "Thank...you...?"

She smiles and laughs.

One day she tells him he reminds her of her dog, the color of his wings and the fact he had chased away the goblins that day they first met.

"He was my best friend," she admits morosely.

He blinks. "What was his name?"

"His name was Geraint," she says, "and we found him with his eyes clawed out and a hole in his chest."

She starts calling him Sir Geraint, and he finds that both endearing and disturbing.

* * *

_He had dreams before he'd met the humans, of ripping past scale and flesh and muscle and crushing **their** brother between his bare hands. The splintering of Tempest's gem is ingrained in his palms._

_Before he met Lisa, that was all he knew. He could only destroy, and he was miserable._

* * *

  Daisy can hear Chickie's stuttering breath from within the cave when she enters.

"...Geraint?" Chickie asks without turning. He does this often, she notes, because she apparently "feels like Geraint."

"It's Daisy," she calls back.

Chickie is silent, but the way his shoulders sag makes her feel intensely unappreciated.

He's Tempest, she knows, but aiding Tempest feels natural. She is part of Sentinel, after all, and Sentinel had treasured Tempest, and Tempest had loved Sentinel. The two had been kin.

(She knew that was why Sentinel had slain Tempest.)

She sits down next to Chickie and leans into his side. 

 


	3. A Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Lunar New Year, guys. Have a shot.
> 
> The army drinks to a narrow victory.

"To a battle well-fought!"

A great, echoing roar rips from the beleaguered infantrymen as Nerwin's post-speech toast rises into the air. Their clearing is lit not by the new moon above, but rather by the fairy lights that dance around drunken soldiers. Their goblets, more familiar with cheap mead, seem insufficient for the fine elven wine they now hold. 

The Calling of the New Moon Festival is not a celebration of man; it comes from the elves, and they would have been content to hide away in their own tents to celebrate it in private.

But the Raid's leader had been injured in the last battle. The army was in dire need for a boost in morale.

As it stands, Nerwin had agreed, and tonight, the elves, though they look slightly peeved about having to share their caskets of New Moon Wine, are enthusiastic about the added energy. Despite the tensions between man and elf over the campaign, seeing the esteemed Nerwin flanked by Kasarana, Varnak, and Terramai and looking utterly ecstatic puts both parties at ease. The elves match the men in their roars of approval.

"To a night hard-won!" bellows Varnak, to a similarly raucous response. Kasarana punctuates his toast with spectacular, if drunkenly aimed, fireworks from her staff. Terramai, not to be outdone, calls sparks onto his mace. With all of the speaking done, they step off the table, replaced by a tipsy elven band and one very ambitious man banging on a tambourine.

On the edges of this joyous celebration paces Veslkud, with his hands bandaged. Perhaps his decision to snap his own blade had been a rash one, given his raw and cut palms, but he cannot bring himself to regret it. After all, it was his error that put Geraint towards the back of the crowd, seated with the injured.

The cheerful swordsman turns, somehow sensing his presence. The way his smile draws even wider is blinding.

"Sir Velskud!" Geraint calls loudly, pulling dozens of merry eyes in his general direction. Geraint is not often this outspoken, preferring to converse softly when not making speeches or issuing orders for the sake of concealing his rather...simple nature, but the festivities charge him with an uncharacteristic rowdiness.

And the injured men  _love_ it. After all, Geraint has always been the favorite leader; the nervous one, the affable one, the dorky one. He's the country bumpkin knight they feel closest to messing and joking and drinking with. It's still disarming to see him stripped of his flashy armor and blade, sitting amongst the men with bandages wrapped around his body. He almost blends in if not for that incessant glow that marks him as distinctly Geraint.

Velskud nods. "Good evening."

"Come, come! We have enough wine at our table for a couple more," Geraint says, beckoning with the hand that isn't in a sling, and Velskud considers it. He really does, but he is unsure of how he might belong in this gathering. Already, he can see the soldiers sitting up a bit straighter, bodies less relaxed, laughter quieting around him. 

He politely declines. "I came only to see how you were doing," he says. "These festivities have made me slightly faint. I believe I will be retiring to my tent for tonight."

He turns before he can see Geraint's face fall and leaves. The laughter becomes louder behind him as he stalks away.

The encampment, as opposed to the main clearing, is silent, and the echoes of the festivities through the abandoned tents ring like a memory from the distance. The only men here are those on painkilling spells, those that submitted early to their wine, and Velskud. As he passes row upon row of quiet tents, he pulls out the letter.

He considers burning it. They've lost their trust in him already if they're sending letters of warning, chiding him for getting too attached. It's no small wonder that they know of his friendship with Geraint. Elena is a treacherous snake, yes, but a stealthy one as well, and it's hardly a secret that General Velskud and Sir Geraint have become close, what with their sparring sessions becoming more and more interspersed with intimate banter and conversation.

He really should burn it. He isn't going to follow their damn instructions anyways.

(He won't be the cause of Geraint's misery once again.)

Footsteps stutter behind him, and he needn't look to know who it is. Like a moth drawn to an open flame, this fool doesn't know how to stay away from that which might harm him.

Velskud puts on a smile and waits for the man to catch up. Geraint's limp is heavier than he expected, and he begins to suspect that it might also be the alcohol exacerbating the issue; elven wine is quite strong after all. As Geraint pulls up to his side, Velskud catches his chest to stabilize him.

"I really don't need this," Geraint says, voice soft once more. "I can walk quite fine on my own."

"Which explains the limping, the wincing, and the almost falling," Velskud deadpans, and his friend pouts. Goddess, a man his age shouldn't be pouting. Velskud becomes increasingly aware that his original plan for joining the raid was to betray a man with the demeanor of an adolescent child, the human equivalent of a quiet, earnest puppy. 

(Velskud had promised to  _protect_ this man back in Arendel, when the stakes had been high and the whole campaign had seemed in ruins. This man had thrown himself in front of a _blade_ to _save_ him.)

_He will burn that letter_ _._

"The yelling was getting on my nerves quite a bit too," confesses Geraint, almost tangibly lying. "May I come to your tent and finish that volume on the War of the Ancients?"

Velskud wonders how he could have possibly placed himself in this predicament, stuck with this idiotic, naive, _wonderful_ manchild.

He nods. "Of course."

He pulls Geraint's un-cast-bound hand around his shoulder and places an arm around the man's back to support his torso. At the risk of sounding sentimental, Velskud imagines that the texture he feels through Geraint's thin shirt is not just the tying off of his bandages, but a pair of fluttering wings. The man is an angel. Not one of the massive, blade-wielding archangels that decorate the cathedrals of Saint's Haven, but the ones shaped like babies that people put on their fountains.

Geraint smiles radiantly at him in appreciation, and the letter, with its fiery condemnation, almost singes Velskud through his pocket.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geraint's wings are visible through his clothing on his character model. This man had ONE JOB.


	4. Adaptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This body is too small for a dragon.  
> (A headcanon taken to an illogical, angsty extreme.)

Dragons are shapeshifters. As long as Geraint's lustre remains intact within his chest, the glint of his golden scales can melt easily into a smooth midnight coat or vibrant plumage or the bare nakedness that man prefers. A mere shift in mindset and the hulking golden dragon squeezes into another's skin.

Humans are a complex form to build. Unlike dragons, their skeletal systems are fairly set, and their bipedal nature leaves little room for error in the balancing of the body. No tails, no wings, no claws, no horns, no fangs, no beaks, no compound eyes. Choose one set of genitals. Man or woman? Woman or man? One color of eye unless you fancy isolation. And your face must be symmetrical lest the people slide shifty side-eyes and hurry away whispering. And in size, man may not be the smallest, but to him, they might as well be. Folding and contorting a titan's worth of flesh and scales and feathers and _being_  into a form small enough to squeeze into a man's armor. He'd nearly vomited that day.

Sometimes, when he can finally manage to remove himself from the masses, he can curl into himself, pinch his nose, cover his ears, and revel in the calm. His form strains under the heightened senses of a dragon, with each passing second of thousand-layered scents sounds sensations pounding and railing against the iron bars of his human ribs, raging against the concrete walls of his human skull.

He is tearing at the seams.

He is set to burst. 

One night, he escapes from the raucous men and flees into the forest, and once sufficiently alone, he rips past the scarf and chestplate and tunic and undershirt until his wings can unravel from their crumpled and crushed state. They are too small, he thinks. Large enough to take the edge off of the pressure, but still too small. Small enough to hide, small enough to cover, yet here he is, laid bare, fluttering them gingerly until he can barely take the restraint anymore.

More and more feathers and flesh leak out, and, more and more, he can feel the overwhelming fog of sensory detail dissipate into golden wings. As his wings expand, he feels large enough to accommodate the sound of the men chattering nearly a mile away. With just this small liberation, he can better fit the odor of a squirrel bleeding to death a hundred or so paces behind him. 

His feathers brush the edge of the clearing, and Geraint knows then that he has let go of far too much. His body has kept its integrity; he checks for scales and finds none. But his wings...

With a slight beat, he nearly topples a tree.

Bewildered, he attempts to drag them back, pull them down enough to be obscured by his clothes and scarf, but even the slightest retreat is enough to incense his nature into snarling and clawing at the bars of this human form. He becomes light-headed. He grits his teeth. He wonders if he can roar here, an earth-shaking, sky-rending cry, and whether or not anyone will remember.

And then his hypersensitive dragon ears find light, human footsteps rushing towards him.

Geraint blinks at his clothes on the ground, and then at his mass of golden feathers. He has little time. So little time. He can just barely make it, he thinks, as feathers and flesh and bone scrape and shoot and stab into his spine, and with it, his momentary reprieve explodes into chaos, and a hammer made of sensory noise slams down upon his feeble human skull.

When Velskud finds him, his back is completely bare, and he is lying, trembling, in a puddle of his own vomit.

* * *

Argenta has called him a fool for putting up with all of this just to bring the humans and elves together. She has said he loves them too deeply.

Lying in a feverish panic, overrun by a hundred miles' worth of scent and sound with nary a feather of his dragon form to bear the weight, he nearly believes her.

"You really oughtn't drink so much," Velskud thunders beside him, digging around his medical bag with a great, clattering cacophony. "Barely a fortnight without your sister to keep you in check, and there you are, passed out drunk and sick in the forest."

Alcohol. Geraint doesn't touch the stuff. But his friend's voice pounds so hard against the dome of his skull that he might as well be drunk.

With shaky hands, he covers his ears and groans. If he could only change, at least let his wings out even in the smallest capacity, he would be fine. He could hold it all in, bear it for just a little longer.

But here he is shirtless, and his best friend cannot know of his nature.

He grits his teeth and tries not to roar as the night drags on and on.


End file.
